The Shadow of Tevinter
by G33k-2D
Summary: On special request, I have chosen to reupload and possibly revive the Shadow of Tevinter. It's a fic following an original and totally not cannon-friendly female character, and eventually her relationship with Fenris, who she is similar to in many ways.
1. The Legend

**Author's Note:** _In general, the point of fan-fiction, to me, is a comforting imitation whereby I can spend some quality time with the fictional characters I already know. In this fic., I've decided to let my imagination take full charge, and stop at nothing I can't tie in—no matter how ridiculous. I'm going to honour the events in the two games, and as many of the language conventions as I can find, so this is not technically AU, but I'm adding in a twist that I don't think could ever happen in the bioware approved understanding of Thedas. Despite stretching the boundaries, however, I hope I keep enough of the wonders of Thedas (pardon the flat joke) to still let this be an engaging Dragon Age story, while letting you in on the roller coaster that is my mind. This chapter is the prologue, and it should give you a really good idea of where I'm going with this story without my needing to get into a strict summary._

**A note on the use of language: **I have attempted to keep the cannon language wherever possible. Because the languages have very few established sayings, however, I will often use the root languages and change them in ways I think goes well with the story, then, I will provide the English translation (in brackets) since there really won't be another way for you to translate a lot of it.

**A note on the use of cannon:** I said that I wasn't using an idea I'd ever expect from bioware, and this is true. Regardless, I'm not willing to leave any of our favourite characters in the dust, either. Since this is mainly my fun story, I'm going to bring in cannon characters whenever I can, and some of them will stay in the story for a long time. I don't want to give too much of anything away, but I think some of the most common appearances will be Zevran and Fenris, with high probabilities for Isabella and the PC characters.

**A note on the projected length and content:** I expect this work to be numerous chapters long, and eventually grow into the hundreds of thousands of words. I recommend that readers keep a firm M rating in mind and use their discretion. The work is likely going to include significant violence, views that may be offensive or make people uncomfortable, and sexually mature content.

_**Please feel free to ask any questions you may have, and make any requests you see fit. If you like the piece, please review, favourite, or follow the story so that I know who I'm writing for.**_

'The three most alluring things in the world, and I don't care what anyone else would tell you, are the forgotten, the forbidden, and the formidable. Once anything that falls into one of those categories comes to be, it changes things. It all just carries a certain feeling about it that never goes away. What's stronger, is when all three of those things are brought to life by a single thing, or being, or force. When those three aspects collide like that, the most powerful magisters in the world could not erase the marks the collision leaves on the world. When something like that comes into being, it is known forever by the wind, the stone, by silence itself. No matter how faded the marks get, no matter how long they've been forgotten, sooner or later they'll scream out their stories. My friends, I must say, if anything in existence other than Flemeth herself can truly be said to embody the forgotten, the forbidden, and the formidable, this is undoubtedly it.

'Whether the creation was a mistake is really a matter of perspective. The situations surrounding the creation, though—there's just no explaining what it was that possessed them. If the story of the Tevinter Invasion of the Golden City is true, then I think the people involved are the closest intellectual decedents of those mages—and there's no way to get around the fact that that's some dangerous ground, am I right?

'It was early in the month of Wintermarch, or Verimensis, as the locals would call it, and the year was 9:10 Dragon. A particular Magister, one with a less political agenda than most, had come upon some legends from the old Tevinter Imperium and decided, almost against all logic, to experiment with a way to combine the old Tevinter knowledge with some relatively more modern secrets. His goal, it would seem, was to create the perfect slave—at least, that's the only logical explanation.

'The Magister had performed several experiments already, with varying degrees of success, and he decided to enlist a group of the closest people to experts he could find—whether or not they were interested. He was filthy rich, and times were even more desperate than they are now; I'm not sure there is anything he couldn't have gotten done.

'Of the six people he conscripted to be the pivot points of his grand project, only two came willingly. One, a Magister named Danarius, was chosen because of his talents with lyrium etching. As far as the mastermind of the whole thing was concerned, Danarius was making strides that could revolutionise the way magic was fueled forever, a combination of blood magic and lyrium power that few before had ever imagined. Danarius agreed on simple terms, there was hardly anything he wouldn't do for money, a few good slaves, and favours with the right people.

'The second that came willingly was his chosen slave breeder. It's horrible to us civilised people, but this man actually specialised in picking out the genetic prodigies for any project. What he found was beyond the probable, it was one of those things that could only happen in Tevinter. He'd managed to procure a very rare hybrid slave for the final attempt, one that would have all the immunities and strengths of its qunari father, and all the elegance, and magical talent and, the hope was, subservience of the—umm, their words mind—of the bitch knife ears that had been the things mother.

'But that wasn't everyone. The Magister's plans outstripped anything even Danarius could have imagined, and his ambitions went a lot further than lyrium markings. No, what the Magister had in mind was the epitome of forbidden, even in Tevinter.

'In order to fulfill his plans for the half elf child, the Magister conscripted four more to fill in the gaps of his own expertise. By one terrible method or another, the Magister forced these four to help him create something like the world had never seen before. The first, and easiest to convert to his ways, was the greatest Reaver Tevinter has ever known. It is said no one can so much as speak his name without dying of fear. The second, and one that probably could never have been convinced if the attempt had been made so much as eight months later, was a grey warden, one familiar with all the details of the clandestine joining ritual. The third was a revered father of the Imperial chantry, who objected to the notion of both the Maker and Tevinter history being bastardised in an attempt to outreach every predecessor. And the last one, the one that apparently ties together and I never really understood, was the keeper of the first corruption…'

'First corruption?' asked his main interlocutor. 'What does that mean keeper of the first corruption? You're being vague.'

A smile came across the story teller's face, a smile darker with knowledge than anyone would suspect through his fiction. 'Well,' he started, 'if you believe the stories, the keeper is the head member of a secret order that had been passing it down since the first blight, learning all of its secrets.'

'Passing what down? What secrets? Get on with it!'

The storyteller leaned in, his body language that of a sly rogue about to tell an important secret 'the blood of the first archdemon.'

'No… Alright, alright I get it, never ask for a story from a bull-shitter, right?'

'Think whatever you want,' he replied, simple, level, ominous.

'Do you have any idea what you're saying? The kind of being that would make? And you're not suggesting—no! Even you couldn't be that flamboyant with your ridiculous stories and your penchant for the eloquent.'

'And what is it that you think I'm saying, exactly?'

'You're saying that somewhere out there is a qunari elf with lyrium etching in its skin, and corrupted dragon demon blood running through its veins. You're suggesting some kind of abomination cooked up by some crazy magister with lyrium making it like whatever the hell Danarius made, and you're saying that somehow it's also some perverted copy of a Warden, a Reaver, and a Templar, and by the sword you, Serrah, are full of shit!' the interlocutor screamed out, half in rage and half doubled over in laughter at the implausibility. 'It couldn't happen. No time, no place—not even in Tevinter."


	2. The Hybrid

**A note on dates:** I'm going to be using dates a lot in this fic. I'm going to try to keep it within the bioware timeline when possible but I'm going with the games as my primary source and I'm going to take a tremendous amount of liberties outside of that

**A reminder on language:** I am doing my best attempts at changing up the root languages in a DA style, I am not actually representing any true languages though I may use a multitude of words without changing them at times.

_Somewhere, behind the excruciating, blinding pain of conversion, the tapestry of the past remains. Though it is faded, tattered, and much the worse for wear, its message issues forth is cries of horrible truths. It was hidden far away, pushed back behind a wall of insurmountable pain, but its message is clear in the fade_.

The instant she woke she felt sick to her stomach. She woke, trying to move, trying to be sick, and the world blurred into a slew of horrendous agony. The light from the sterile white hallway lacerated through her eyelids and assaulted her senses, sending the world into an imperceptible black void by comparison. Her young mind fought to think clearly, to understand the situation, but in the disarray of the blurry world she found only one truth—poison, it was the only explanation.

Her—its?—her weak hands struggled against dragonbone irons, seemingly a million times heavier than she could support. Her wrists seethed, raw and bleeding, her very veins subject to the grating of the shackles. Her legs refused to move, but the slight twitch she'd managed through the focus of all her efforts sent writhing pain through every microcosm of her disfigured form.

What had she done? Why was she there?

_Those who bear false witness_

_And work to And work to deceive others, know this:_

_There is but one Truth._

_All things are known to our Maker_

_And He shall judge their lies._

Punishment—it had to be punishment there was no other explanation. Had she lied to Master?

Like space, time began to blur. The world alternated between dark, bloody, warm, cold, blinding pain. The cold stone called with the force of a thousand blizzards through the tattered remains of her robes and its sharp interrogation massacred her aching body. Still, it felt like a pleasant relief in comparison to the death cold grip issuing from the barren hall.

Darkness, light; warmth, cold—fear.

The warden's voice cried out from the midst of its own torture _I can't! You don't know what you're doing! You'll bring on an evil matched by nothing but the blight itself!_

In all that pain, all that cold, only few phrases remain, standing clear.

_A Reaver slave? You can't be serious?"_

_No one could survive that! A little girl? It's impossible!_

Even the punisher's voice came out in protest through the haze of reality, the voice of hate and lyrium echoed menacingly through the halls _I admire your ambition Messere, I do, but what if the elf was right? What if it's true?_

Somewhere and nowhere, no one and everyone is asking, and reverberating in the assaulting cold room and through every inch of the silent stone it rings, the question: _She's too young to know! __**What if she has magic?**_

**An unassuming three storey tavern in the bustling Antiva city. 2031 Tevinter; 9:36 Dragon**

The doors burst open. The concussive forth of magic surges through the main floor of the tavern, tossing over tables, chairs, and various other fair in its wake. The men come in, heavy handed, even crows run at the sight of them. Nothing that stands in their path lives, neither being nor thing, no obstacle is allowed to stand. Patrons are unceremoniously tossed to the side. No mattress is left unturned, no floorboard or wall unchecked. The men leave. In the increasingly distant memory, the after events are still clear, the moments after coming out of hiding.

"Tevinter?" she had asked.

The meek and fearful voice of her hostess guard had responded, hesitating "habla'essan Arcanum." (They were speaking the Tevinter language).

"Verda'? They haven't even been in Antiva since before the blight, how could they even still know to look here?"

Protests were made, in one form or another, to that question and all the other phrases that were exchanged. Only the decisive end resounds in the aftermath of the raid, the intrusion that went almost past the flesh.

"Sacalo e traedmelo! (Bag him and bring him to me!) If one thing is clear it's that nowhere is safe. Now, I'm out, and they're back, the two are most probably related. Venhedis! (profanity, Arcanum) Bring me the former crow, or I'll get him myself!"

_Rage, anytime there was anything fear just turned to rage, bloodlust against even the closest of friends. In the panic of the moment, the world itself seemed doomed to crumble for lack of anger to push back the ever-present guilt. Who'd have thought it could all get much worse?_

**Same location, 2032 Tevinter; 9:37 Dragon**

Dreams of the frigid, agonising night were accosted by the sickly warm gloom oozing from the singular window of the alcove hidden above the attic. The words still rang in her ears _Those who bear false witness, And work to And work to deceive others, know this:_ _There is but one Truth._

_All things are known to our Maker And He shall judge their lies. _They rose as sick in the pit of her stomach. _Why hide, little dove? _They seemed to say. _Leave the sinful lies and leave these people in peace, free of your intrusion, free of the raids you force us to conduct for you_.

The sharp proficiency of her elven ears painted the story of the tavern in the bangs and thundering. She could almost see the devastation, the people thrown clear into walls, the sacking of the tavern and the inn, all in search of a single trace. Mingles with the words playing through her mind it made her sick, she turned on her side in a nauseated daze, ill from all the words and the knowledge and the heat.

Suddenly, mug and gloom gave way to exhilarating life. Longing, hunger, her marks came to life, adrenaline and blood began to pulse their wicked wished throughout her body; it called—glorious fear. _Calm, calm you blighted fool or they'll detect you._

And when the danger had past and the aching lust for fear had ebbed back enough to climb down into the tavern the question that issued forth was one that would have seemed illogical a year before: "Esclavistas, templarios, o magos?" (Slavers, Templars, or mages?)

The world had changed. Distance from Tevinter no longer mattered, there were enemies everywhere, of every nationality. If a single one found out, all would be lost. As raids and searches for one person or another grew more and more common, that was the only question that remained. Angst and panic, guilt and fear melted time and time again into rage until it was all the woman could do to keep from screaming out in a rage fueled by fire and life itself against the very sky, every star and the maker himself if He existed—how had the world been allowed to come to this. Unable to scream out, unable to scream against the night sky for its every treachery the woman more often than not collapsed, nearly fetal, lawed hands grasping at each other mindlessly, rocking away the desperation as best she could. But the mask skill needed to be in place, everything always had to appear to be going well.

Did the crow still matter? It was a year later and she was still losing as many in the search for the blighted elf as she did to the raiders. He had to matter. He'd survived the impossible time and time again, he'd infiltrated the impenetrable, if anyone could mean victory under the ever more watchful gaze of the conflicting regimes, it was him.


	3. The Reaver

**A note on the formatting:** I only now realised that my transitional markers aren't actually appearing online. I'm going to try to remedy that now.

**A final not on language: **please forgive my intentional bastardisations, and the level to which they also aren't bastardised enough.

**A note on the content: **If the story is a little tedious, over-dramatic/pretentious, or angst-y at times, I apologise, but I'm approaching this story with a far less formulaic view than I usually do. Similarly, I'm going past the imitation and elaboration I usually use fan fictions for. Hopefully some of you will appreciate it

**A note on the rating:** Throughout this story, there are going to be a lot of scenes where discretion is needed either because of sexual content or brutality. I'm reminding everyone now, but this is really the last time. After this I make no apologies for either the subject matter or the level of detail, you were all warned and you should be able to make your choices accordingly.

**A note on titles:** Some of my titles are going to be carefully crafted, some will be cues to external influences, and some will just be my idea of funny. I hope they help, but if they get too distracting just imagine I labeled them with numbers.

**A note on notes: **I am ridiculously neurotic, so I'll give way too much information rather than too little whenever I'm not trying really hard to be vague. That being said, I'll try to limit my future stories to one or two notes.

-o-

**The same unassuming tavern. Some time later in 2032 Tevinter/9:37 Dragon. **

It is nearly dusk and the head of the currently ruling cell of the Antivan Crows sits, waiting, in the tavern. This is unusual: he's neither been in that tavern nor waited ever before. Everyone in the tavern is on edge, but it is not the Crow who makes them nervous. The crow knows only that he must wait, that he must be courteous, and that he hates every moment of being treated in this deplorable manner.

Upstairs. _Fear_ her mind sang. She could feel it running through her veins, concentrated in her pressure points and in her eyes, practically seething. The day had finally arrived to take control, and she was ready to make an entrance.

Downstairs, all that is heard is light rustling from above. The patrons know its intentional, for their benefit. It—she never makes an inadvertent sound. The suspense in the air draws the next minute out ad infinitum and it seems like an eternity before the door to the back hallway swings silently open and her first step claims the room, commanding both attention and control. All eyes but the hostess's investigate from the ground up, always too timid about the resident stranger to attempt a direct glance_**.**_

The intentionally heavy boot hit the landing, in itself a regal black metal that stood in defiance to just under the hybrid's knees against a thick charcoal cloth practically grafted to her body. It's parts twist out with old Tevinter like disfiguration, layering outward from her shin and around her calves—weapons.

The gazes shift slowly, ever higher as the next foot comes even with the first and the hybrid consumes the room as easily as she consumes the doorway.

Around the charcoal encased thighs, pins and throwing daggers gleam with the reflection of steel. Further up, on the right, a strap: connecting belts, bags and more weapons for security. Layers of black and silver metal cover the lower flanks, heavy but quiet, unnaturally pliable. Two twisted double ended daggers, practically the size of swords, cross at the back of the piece. The heavy and equally pliable chest piece issues up from it, etched in nondenominational silver symbols.

A gauntleted hand rests almost absently nearby. Like most of the black metal pieces, the gauntlet is more than it seems. It raises and falls much like the boot, and it's enormous size, in contrast to its still rather large companion, suggests that the gauntlet has a further purpose. A bar of equally ebony metal is attached to its underside, and it, too, is deceptive in its relatively unassuming stature. The most honest of the items, those that called attention beyond question, were the two handed age and the tall mage staff attached further up the hybrid's back.

In and above these weapons, and weapons designed as clothing, towered the hybrid, a 6'1'' creature that looked to strangers like a giant elf. Her fade blue eyes pieced paced the hip long, choppy ebony hair hidden her officious dark dragonbone neck guard, its shoulder piece, and the large fur hood attached. Knife ears pierce through the layers of hair, knife ears adorned with hoops and bars of metal.

The secret is revealed in the markings on the hybrid's upper forearms, her equally bare lower shoulders, her neck and her face. The lyrium markings run bright, and they pulse through obscured shades of red as the blood of the conversion ebbs through them, pushed with every beat of the hybrids heart.

The attention faded, but the room remained quite solemn. The blinding light of the lyrium gave way to simple markings, and the pulsing blood grew unnervingly subtle, though it never truly settled. As she approached the crow and finished her analysis of the man, the fade in her eyes dissipated and left the gleaming violet eyes usually reserved for the pure kossith.

"Crow," she began the conversation simply, her voice short and imposing.

"Am I to believe you are the benefactor, then?"

"Creas que desea," she went on (believe what you wish). "Just know that there is something you need to arrange, and if you choose not to comply things will go badly for you."

"You dare threaten me?"

"You think it's a coincidence you moved from a nobody in a nothing cell to your current position. Your honourable enough, for scum, and the task will not go unrewarded."

"Then enough. Corta l'teatre (cut the theatrics). Name the arrangement and the price."

"The crow that got away, the one you'd all rather forget, he's off-limits now, no matter the time or the place, the subject of your vengeance is dead, no one knows the new man."

"Deshonor! (I'm not translating this, figure it out) Why?"

"Fifty sovereigns, the estate above the Aradiss chambers and all its contents, and much fewer problems."

"Verdin! (scum) Fine."

Money and keys were tossed unceremoniously onto the table, the crow left with scorn on his face, and both bulls were aggravated by their confrontation. Soon enough, the mood shifted. The stranger was not so frightful outside of confrontation, the hybrid dissolved into the almost, but not quite, normal.

She approached the hostess, the one person who had treated her as anything similar to an equal. She pulled her close by the waist and brought the lesser of her gauntlets to the other's face, passionate and pleading but decidedly unromantic according to her own character.

"No volvera, vas a ser mas segur' aqi," (Not coming back, you'll be safer then) she spoke out, in a heavy voice filled with regret and certainty. "N'puedo segyr tu peso e to dolor, pero seras siempre mi protegida querida." (I can't remain your burden and your pain, but you shall always be my cherished protected.) With that said, the hybrid lay a delicate kiss on the woman's forehead and separated, heading out never to return. The only thing she allowed to remain in her heart from the past years was the hostess's voice pleading her name in a whisper as she left, '_Daz'rath'_.


	4. The Shadow

**Author's note:** We're finally getting to the part with more cannon characters than a few references to Danarius. Hopefully some of you are enjoying/will enjoy this.

* * *

As the hybrid Daz'rath made her way further and further from the tavern, she could almost physically feel every trace of safety and a sense of home trickling from her body. She was heading further and further from her district, with the people she knew and the people who owed her, who knew her protection rather than her wrath or her hunger for fear. In the further parts of Antiva, she was a giant elf at best and an abomination at worst, and it smelled like a night for the Templars. As dusk gave way to night the perfidious moon shone her markings into eerie brightness against the falling night. She could trust in her own abilities alone, and if she had to face the Templars in the open, she could never win and still leave the city unnoticed.

Suppressing any fear well beneath her oppressive anger and outrage, she reached into one of her many side packs for a light fitting cloak and pulled it over her shoulders. She pulled on her hood and pulled a scarf up her face almost to her eyes. She let her hair fall out to further obscure the markings on her arms, and she kept her hood low to obscure any hint of her ears, too pointy for anyone that tall. The markings that remained visible, few as they were and away from natural pulse points, could pass for high grade tattoos anywhere outside Tevinter. As she continued into the night, towards the most lively parts of Antiva, she cast spells of concealment and used abilities in subterfuge to pass unnoticed in the night and realized, with concussive speed, that her adopted home of nearly a decade, the formerly beloved Antiva, had become nothing but a place.

Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun; The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. Yet another truth, growing increasingly apparent, that came from the lips of those who would, at best, have none of her if they knew what she was.

Through the refuge of alleys, in near complete silent, Daz'rath made her way towards the richest of the whorehouses in Antiva. She knew it would be the place. When they had asked her over a year earlier how the elf could be convinced to meet her she had said simply "even the orphan will always follow his feet home, just get him to come back to Antiva" The man's upbringing was hardly a secret, especially with all the bounties he'd had on him up until that very evening. If he had had a home to follow his feet to, this was it.

She stepped past the threshold of the tavern with ghostly silence and set her eyes to scanning quickly for any possible information, never hesitating in a single step towards the bar. "Pardon miss," she started towards the female attendant of the bar in the back of the small square room of varnished wood, forcing an Antivan accent. Her voice dropped to a whisper, her hand dropped to her hip as much for posture as for a very decisive manipulation of the subtleties of body language "Nosse la contrasenna, pero tengo de bueana tinti qu'eres instolaciones essan… dosimas impresionentes. Esperame que podri ser persuadido para una excepcione." (I don't know the password, but I have it on good authority that you're facilities are… significantly more impressive. I was hoping [or: my desire is that] you could be persuaded to make an exception). Though her lips weren't visible, her sly persuasive smile shone through her very eyes, though they were tinted by magic to a light blue better suited to her icy pale skin. When she noticed hesitation in the smaller woman's face, her fingers dextrously pulled a few sovereigns from tucked inside a bag near her him, rolling the shiny coins against the light, looking knowingly into the barmaid's eyes. The matter was settled. Daz'rath took a moment to look around her, more for the show to the barmaid of the typical behaviour than any need for more information. With an appreciative raise of the eyebrows, and the disappearance of her coin from view, the hybrid was off silently into the back room, through a closet and beneath the trap doors. Whores or not, nothing interesting ever happened up front.

Her eyes ran their same analysis on the various groups littered though the tavern's various subbasements. It took only two levels to find who she was looking for. Her eyes caught onto his, and for a moment magic had stopped obscuring them, and she blinked, but she continued along, practically turning away from her target before sitting at a vacant table. She smiled lightly to herself, and pulled a deck of cards from somewhere within the folds and pockets of her garb and tossed the leather bound things onto the table unceremoniously, but with deliberation. Like that, without any words, the game was on. She'd gain the former crow's curiosity from afar, and all it would take was a few games of cards with the same types of fugitives she always hid out among.

* * *

Even among fugitives, wearing a full cloak and scarves and heavy armour a month from summer day in the hot northland of Antiva was strange. Luckily, certain other things weren't dangerous so much as curious when everyone was a black sheep. Throughout her games she shed her cloak, her gauntlets, she moved the layers of hair to one side, and her weapons and blood-soaked lyrium markings began to slowly make themselves clear, though she though she expended every effort a light hearted patron more than intimidating—she even lost several sovereign on purpose, though she always ended up about balanced despite the liquor and the…entertainment. She was fierce, it couldn't be denied, but it radiated in the same way as greatness, prestige, or incredible knowledge. She had become intriguing, and for once it was quite on purpose.

It didn't take long for the former crow to take notice, especially of the fact that she'd remained mysteriously shrouded despite it all. If there was one thing the man seemed incapable to resist, it was the riddles hidden in everyday life. He made no real show of interest for some time, he had his own entertainments to seek among the patrons and workers alike, after all. But as the games went on, and the pleasures kept coming, it began to eat at him from the back of his mind. _He needed to know more._ And, without the slightest shred of the obvious, in a chain of discussions and manoeuvres no one but the carefully watching hybrid could have ever detected, it came to be that the former crow came to be at the card table of his own accord, sitting across from the shrouded damsel.

[For simplicity's sake, and your own, let's just pretend the dialogue in the following scene is Antivan.]

The opponents faced each other in silence for the first hand. Hold was pushed forth and either called or not simply by action. The opponents were learning each other, meeting each other without words, and their eyes were telling the entire story as they looked each other over or reacted to hands placed down. Soon, there was an excuse to speak, as though excuses were needed to break the charismatic pull delving them into silence.

After winning his third hand in a row, the former crow decided to push his luck in a different way "may I say, dear lady, that perhaps your earlier winning streak has come from keeping everyone else at a disadvantage? A peculiar one at that, you must be warm."

"Not so warm, no" her eyes smiled. "Well, since you mentioned it, what about a more interesting wager, yes? If you win, I'll remove all the superfluous clothing. I'll even give you a name, to boot" she boasted knowingly, vanity radiating in the assumption that he cared for her name.

The former crow laughed haughtily "And if you win?" he asked, cautiously.

The hybrids eyes glimmered lightly, a sly smile apparent despite her veil "then we'll go upstairs" she led on, in forced flirtation, "and talk" she pressed, playing the virtuous despite her current location.

The elf man smiled, pondering the arrangement, but he had his suspicions that this encounter may not be as simple as it appeared. Still, he was surrounded by allies, and from what he could tell the stranger had none, or at least none present. He tapped his bronzed fingers lightly on the out of date Antivan table, the bet was called.

Whether by accident or by cheating herself into in, the hybrid lost the game. It was just as well, since the situation could only grow more intriguing with new information. Beyond that, the hybrid had gained away to turn her unusualness into something other than fear for the right circumstances. In her years since leaving Tevinter, the most valuable skill she picked up was arguably that of flirtation, often without words. He eyes smiled into the former crow's "so!" she exclaimed in mock surprise "it seems you've won."

Her bare and elegant hands reached slowly towards her scarf, and she pulled it away from her face. The glimmering black lips beneath formed a smile as she slowly, as if it were a great effort, snaked her scarf from out of her hood, dancing its silk along her hands and wrists in the process. She held it up, making a show of it, before dropping it into the seat beside her, letting it glide down, dancing towards the heap of its own making. The smile deepened and the shadows lifted some from the bottom part of her strictly angled jaw and her lightly dimpled cheeks.

She continued, but she left her upper garments for the time being. She trailed her fingers gently along her own arms, slowly loosing and pushing off the cobalt fabric that had previously seemed grafted along her arms, revealing what had been left uncovered of her arms. She breathed deeply as she started revealing pulse points and lengths of markings from along her bare flesh, and in her calm she managed to keep the silver etchings looking tinted by pink rather that visibly gushing with blood. She dropped her weapons, slowly, trailing her finger on each almost suggestively. They fell, one by one, into a pile.

She reached, in a similarly slow manner, for her hood, fingers playing absently along its edges for a few moments, taunting with mock naiveté. As she pulled the hood down, she closed her eyes turned away some, obscuring everything as she reached down and pulled her heavy neck guard and upper plate with one quick motion, dropping them to the floor. With a single finger movement around her waist she dropped the skirting plates in a similar manner.

She sat there in cobalt pants tight enough to make a brother question his vows. Her short tunic seemed tied by nothing but strings at the top, elaborately suggesting greater attention to her clavicle, bare shoulders and long elegant neck, lyrium markings and glimmering white skin shining against the light. It had been designed to be under armour, and Daz'rath rarely took off her armour, even to sleep. She shook out her hair, her large pointed ears drawing attention to themselves as their brass rings clattered against one another. Finally, she opened her un-obscured eyes to judge her effect on the other, and their true violet glistened in the torchlight.

It was clear, she decided, that she was no longer taken for a common vagabond, and that she may as well press her luck in toeing the line between intimidation and smouldering beauty. "My name is Daz'rath," she gave him the last of his dues, "and I've been waiting a long time to meet you, Zevran."

The elf practically choked on his wine. Should he have been concerned? Perhaps, but despite her proclamations the woman sitting across from him had just removed all of her weapons an armour, something that served as a show of peace in almost any culture. He smiled lightly "for a beautiful woman like you?" he began, always the charmer "I would have needed a lot less persuasion. All this foreplay is utterly distracting me" he said, the actual reference to her cat and mouse game was crushed under the innuendo.

She sat, smiling but quiet, Zevran took the lead. "How about another hand, lady Daz'rath. If you win, you'll get your conversation."

"And if you win?" she asked with dimpled smile, biting on her bottom lip as if to hold back a blush while she imitated his previous question.

"Then, we shall go upstairs and… not talk" he smiled.

Whether Zevran actually cared for anything but the tense curiosity of the moment was unclear, but Daz'rath's highly contemplative mind sang at this kind of game, the one that was going on between their minds, despite the cards. They continued in tense silence, and Daz'rath won. Zevran reached for her hand and wrist in a tender gesture and show of appreciation. Instinctually, Daz'rath arm flinched at the contact. She passed the reaction off as surprised, smiling an embarrassed smile as she forced her bare flesh to settle under the foreign hands. She forced a light, carefree sigh and pushed her smile into sweeter, less wily lines. She needed this man to see her as an ally before she ever asked for help or she'd come off as a madwoman for certain. "You know, the whole ominous conversation thing is rather tiresome, especially in a place like this. Why don't we… get to know each other first? Something a little more…casual?"


	5. The woman from Rivain

_It is a show of faith_ she reminded herself firmly as she effortlessly collected her gear and headed upstairs. _He needs to know he can trust you, it is like a drink or cards or favours._ Outwardly she smiled, heavy boots making less noise than most slippers as she pranced up the stairs after Zevran. _And shows of faith, are meant to be fun._ That was all she needed. Her smile went wicked and she could almost feel her eyes go into an intoxicatingly sharp focus. _Indulgences_ the dark parts of her nature whispered to her, like a hungry beast. With that single word, it was decided, and all aversions were cast aside in the name of blood boiling delirium. She could feel adrenaline pumping blood throughout her lyrium markings, and the Reaver in her **made** her enjoy it.

It had been seven years since Daz'rath's relations with the barmaid had become _strictly not a relationship_, and the touch of her lips against the woman's head had been her most intimate physical contact ever since. Now, completely stripped of armour around others, feeling the hot Antivan air directly against her skin for the first time outside of bathing in ages and rushing in the cold fury her own adrenaline produced, there was no more denying _the need._

She threw her gear to the floor of the small room and the door slammed behind her by magic. In one quick step she had Zevran against the wall, fingers gripping at his upper arms even as they pinned him there. She leaned in and kissed him hungrily, her fingers sent waves of cold miking her own adrenaline into the elf's body, and her kiss pushed the hot of the Antivan air, mixed with sensations matching the effects of her emotions.

It was started, and it could not be undone. Despite having overreacted in the tavern several times due to extreme concern for her own life or insane doses or fear to feed upon, Daz'rath had managed to remained eerily acetic. But the moment indulgence was called, all the passions constantly fought within her all cried out for release, a floodgate had opened, and it would all start with a night of passionate sex. Her lyrium markings shone at the touch and fueled her own magic, the passion of the hunt became one with that of bodies intertwined.

She had to remind herself to let Zevran win sometimes as she continued to pin him harder or from different parts of his bodies or leaned in and kissed along his neck and body, claiming it with pulses of energy. But he had to win sometime, if only so they could get to the bed. She allowed herself to be pushed, and it was clear that she had allowed it. She brought a hand to Zevran's next and one to his waist. She kissed him passionately, fluttering magic and rushes of energy now rushed fast into Zevrans body in a fast cycle of varying forms, matching the quick pace of the woman's racing mind. She allowed him to lead her slowly, backwards, towards the bed.

Her fingers moved down and dextrously worked on removing Zevran's armour, his hands went to the same task on what was left of hers—still while kissing and moving backwards, like an elaborate and heated dance. She broke the kiss just long enough to reach down and hit release levers on her boots, tossing them aside and in a quick, fluid motion, bringing her hands to the elf's now bare hips, pulling him closer, leading.

She felt her calved hit against the end of the bed, and within seconds she was down, and Zevran was on top of her, kissing his way down her neck and shoulder along her lyrium markings. Both breathed deeply, taking in the intensity of the moment.

Zevran explored her body for some time before coming up for another kiss. She returned them, passionately, hungrily—before tossing him onto his back on the bed. This was choice, this was indulgence, and as she kissed and trailed her magical touch along Zevran's body and ghosted her hands into and out of him in very careful measures she had _control,_ she had _power_, _she_ was taking _him_, and the whole experience intoxicated her.

Through the night both got to lead, but it was constantly in her own control and it the rush of vanity and dominance ravished her. Through lyrium ghosting, Zevran taking Daz'rath and Daz'rath taking him in various forms, everything would become memory, flashes of flesh, of fingers digging into sheets and nails hands digging into flesh, flashes of faces and of hair, of various parts of the room, a dizzying vortex of inebriated lust.

* * *

Night fell deeper and deeper into its dark slumber, and the morning hours began to sing with the first threats of morning. Daz'rath lay on her back, holding the sleeping Zevran in one arm, unnervingly awake. She did not sleep without weapons. She did not sleep with other people touching her. Though she was alert and overly vigilant, she let the elf sleep, holding him rather fondly despite the carnal basis of everything.

As morning began to ebb ever closer into the light that came before sunrise, she very nearly relaxed. She had closed her eyes and began to drift into that world between sleep and wakefulness, but she was suddenly made incredibly alert once again. _Footsteps_ she noted. _Light footsteps, close._ She ghosted her way out from under Zevran, it seemed easier than trying to move him. She pulled back on her lighter garments and silently retrieved for one of her double bladed daggers _just in case_.

There was a click of the door and that was all it took. With passion still fresh in her mind from her indulgences the night before she pounced on the presumed intruder, eyes almost red with rage. Her Reaver ways and magic combined into an ominous aura and the words she spoke seemed to come from that dark aura itself "are you afraid, little one."

She investigated the person trapped beneath her will and the part of her that knew sense began clawing its way out. Her eyes went wide as she investigated the woman in her grasp, "you're not a Templar" she started, rage dissipating into worry. She processed the information before her _she smells of Rivain_ her inner voice said. She dropped the dagger to the floor, hesitating as she back off "you aren't a slaver" she followed, as is anyone from Rivain would hesitate to know that about themselves.

The rogue from Rivain took the equilibrium of surprise to slowly reach out and push the stranger gently towards the wall, her hands running against what she'd assumed at first glance were tattoos. Daz'rath didn't stop her, but she felt sick at being touched after nearly killing the woman, her lyrium marks flared in time with the drop in her stomach.

The rogue arched a brow, a soft smile coming onto her lips "you're a lyrium ghost" she remarked in surprise.

'Rath did not feel well. Someone had come into the room who was neither Templar nor slaver, and presumably not there for her at all. She'd come to her senses to be affronted by the idea that a Rivain rogue knew about lyrium ghosts. The second the Rivan woman's hands stopped touching her, she crumpled to the floor, gripping her face and her head with no idea what to do.

Sometime during the incident, Zevran woke with a sound similar to a purr. His eyes fluttered lightly and he noticed the shapes of more than one person in the doorway. He sat up instantly despite his hangover, coming to some sort of sense.

"Isabella," he chuckled nervously "your ship wasn't supposed to be in until next week. Umm, welcome home?"


	6. The plea of the chained

**Author's note:** could really use some feedback if there's any to give.

**A note on my use of magic:** Because we're working in AU situations after everyone would have been "levelled" anyway, and because I picture Daz'Rath learning magic away from the conventional means, the magic I make possible may not always be cannon possible.

**A note on gear: **Though I know no one could fit a staff or similar items into a side bag, I'm going to act like bags are just magically enhanced to hold more. I figure if dragon age itself conveniently ignores the basic laws of physics with their backpacks I can too.

-o-

As the stranger regained her composure, Zevran got dressed and made his way out of the room for a conversation with the pirate Isabela. Zevran found it strange that she was perfectly composed after being attacked by his night's companion, but he said nothing of it, doubtless she had been through far stranger situations.

"Since when do you come back early?" he asked finally.

"Since I got a message telling me you were returning to Antiva! I thought you might have been killed!"

"Don't tell me you're worried about me?" the elf teased.

Isabela gave him a sour look and rolled her eyes "well," she admitted finally "despite all the fun I may have at sea, maybe it's nice to come back to someone who knows exactly how I like it."

Both of them laughed, partly at the strange fact that they'd admitted any attachment and partly at the absurdity of the morning. For a moment, they let their present situation melt away and fell into their typically roguish and passionate embrace.

When they inevitably finished _reminiscing_, Zevran turned his situation back to the fact that the woman he'd slept with and still owed a conversation to had stopped herself in mid-attack of his lover. "You seem to know something, something that I do not and which makes you strangely comfortable with the morning's proceedings" he noted.

"She's not the first one of her kind I've met" Isabela stated flatly. "I don't know, it might be strange but I have a hard time hating someone who attacks out of complete fear of slavers."

"Or Templars" Zevran reminded.

"Mm, now that part is strange. I've never heard of a magister making a mage into a lyrium ghost before. Still, who are we to judge, it's not exactly like we aren't on some of the most wanted lists ourselves."

"But you know what she is?" he questioned.

"Well, I assume I know. Why does it matter?" Isabela asked, almost certain this was just one of Zevran's single night misadventures.

"I agreed to hear a proposal from her this morning" he clarified cooly.

"Is that why you risked everything to come back here?"

"No! Well, actually, I think so yes, but I wasn't aware that was the reason when I departed, only that I'd been invited back to Antiva by some of my _associates._"

"Well, then I guess we'd better find out more, hadn't we?"

"We?" Zevran asked, somewhat incredulous.

"There's a mysterious and beautiful woman in your room, did you really think I'd let you have all the fun?" she pressed, sly smile coming across her lips. At the suggestion of fun, the pair fell back into a hot embrace, one that moved from their quiet spot in the hall to a space against the wall, one near the stairs, one in which Isabela's legs were wrapped around Zevran… and it eventually ended.

With a smile at the ease of their peculiar relationship and the similarity of their natures Zevran forced his mind to focus back on the task at hand. "Well, let us hear what the lady has to say, yes?

-o-

After the couple had left Daz'rath forced herself to her feet, still disgusted with herself to the point of feeling physically ill. _Remember the last time you attacked someone who didn't deserve it? It didn't end nearly so well, count yourself lucky._ She felt filthy, not that she had allowed herself to sleep with someone, that fact seemed hardly of any consequence, but because she had allow herself to feel something, enjoy something, and, according to her perspective, someone had almost died as a result.

Guilt and disgust would mean nothing, she knew, and so she forced herself to move on. She dressed first in the spirit hide she'd been wearing along her legs and arms before, but she reached into her bag for the chest piece. It would be incredibly warm, she knew, but today of all days she desperately needed her shell, needed the spirit hide firmly encasing what it could of her body. _You're from north of the desert,_ she assured herself silently _the heat won't kill you._

Her shell firmly in place, she pulled on her armour. She didn't imagine herself taking any piece of it off again for some time if she could help it. So, on went the eerily malleable heavy plate skirts and chest piece, and the neck piece that took up the entire mantle of her shoulders. On went the special gauntlets and the silent heavy boots. Her weapons she hid, save the daggers and those hidden as parts of her gauntlets, in one pack or another. She kept her cloak and shall to the top of her bag, sure she'd need to make a clandestine escape soon, but safe enough in her appearance within the confines of the whorehouse.

She made her way back downstairs where they kept the rabble, toward her conversation with the rogues. She forced her stomach to settle and, like many times before, sealed the past behind her as something unchangeable and therefore worth only bitterness. No matter what had happened the night before or that morning, this conversation could not be allowed to suffer as a result—her life depended on it.

-o-

"I need your help" Daz'rath admitted frankly "and I think I've saved enough coin over the last ten years of living above an attic to make it worth your while. The reason it's you, Zevran, is that I'm attempting to do the impossible, and you have a very good track record for accomplishing the impossible."

"She does have you there" offered Isabela, curious to know where this was all going.

"You survived a fight with a grey warden, you left the crows and no one was able to stop you, you helped defeat an archdemon, and you managed to convince the champion of Kirkwall to be your ally—if anyone can do this, it's you."

Isabela snickered internally at the thought that anyone could be afraid of Hawke, and that anyone could know of Hawke and have heard nothing of Fenris. Still, she said nothing.

"So, what is this task, exactly?" Zevran justifiably inquired.

"I need to infiltrate a mansion in Kirkwall" Daz'rath stated. When there was no reply she took the hint that more information was needed "where should I start?" she asked, unsure exactly how much information she should divulge.

"Why don't you start at the beginning kitten?" Isabela led on, as sweetly as she could.

Daz'rath braced herself. Though she still wasn't sure she'd say everything, she knew she had a lot to explain if she wanted help. "I was very young when the magisters turned me into what I am now, I'm not even really sure how old I am but I assume I was somewhere between five or seven. I escaped, I don't know, it must be fifteen years ago now." At the incredulous looks on their faces she added "I'm told I age well, thanks to…everything. Well, alright, as to what I am I'm not entirely certain. I know that I'm part kossith and part elf. I know I have a Reaver's abilities, and I could sense the archdemon during the blight. Because of all that, or in spite of it I'm not certain, there's a certain injection that I need every four or five years. I only really know that because they made me wait more than four years once and I could feel myself going mental, hearing voices, feeling the corruption eating away at me. Anyway, when I managed to escape I stole enough to last me until now, but I used my last dose about a year and a half ago. I can't exactly just walk back into Tevinter and start asking questions, but I know that a close friend of my former master is dead, and I'm hoping his estate will give me some answers, tell me what to look for, what I need to keep from, well, _being called._ I know it's a long shot. I know I might not find what I'm looking for in Kirkwall. But it's my best chance."

The discussion of what this all meant went on for hours. Still, Zevran and Isabela both had a soft spot in their hearts for slaves, for the dejected and the abandoned. By the end of the lengthy discussion, as strangely as it had all been brought about, the couple had both agreed to help, and Isabela offered to chart the voyage on her ship. It was more than Daz'rath had ever really hoped for. Despite her concern at being stuck on a ship for weeks under the care of complete strangers, she readily agreed. Within two days, they were off to Kirkwall.


	7. Guilt

**Author's note: **In case anyone is reading this I'd like to apologise for how lax some of the last couple chapters have been. I'm publishing faster than I probably should and just trying to keep up with my own mind is sending me blundering a little. I hope to be able to clear up any parts of Daz/Daz'Rath/Rath's back story that she herself knows and find a way to tie everything that's going on together without being long winded, boring, or just "too convenient" with how things work out. I hope I'm not making the typical egotistic mistakes that surround most o.c. characters and that I'll hear from some of you soon. I did class the story as angst, however, so I'm definitely going to try to just have some fun with the wonderfully angsty playground at my disposal. Once we get to the chapters I've been imagining from the beginning and trying to set up, hopefully it'll flow a little better and I won't need to make notes to explain this or that.

**Also: **I don't know about you guys, but after this chapter, I'm really starting to love this story.

-o-

The weather had been terrible. With the cacophonous winds an pissing rain, it had taken them days just to make it out of Rialto Bay and far enough into the Amaranthine Ocean to safely say they were on their way to the Waking Sea. The group had talked little, namely because Daz'rath said precious little and Isabela was busy with the problems in weather, but there had been time enough for stories to come out. Though the would-be couple knew little more about Daz'rath than they had when they left Antiva city, 'Rath herself was coming to learn more about Zevran than the rumours she'd had to guess the truth of. She also learned about Isabela's adventures, of course, though she hadn't known that she wanted to before they left, of course. She learned of Isabela's time in Denerim, the story of Zevran killing her husband, and the story of her time fighting alongside the champion of Kirkwall. Any mention of how she knew of lyrium ghosts, however, was ruefully absent.

Daz'rath contemplated the last few days of information over her magically warmed tea below deck. Had she not been utterly distracted by the thought that either a lyrium ghost had managed to escape since her departure or Isabela had been to Tevinter recently, she'd likely have been thanking herself for wearing her tight shell of hide before heading south in cold, wet winds.

"I've been meaning to ask you," Zevran began, sliding his way onto the bench of the table opposite her, "when we spoke in Antiva you had said you were _told_ you age well, your choice of words has been confusing me ever since." To make the situation less awkward, Zevran pulled out a deck of cards and began dealing them as he spoke. The game would go on, hand after hand, through the entire conversation. The strategy worked well, since both preferred speaking over games than talking about issues and questions as the center focus.

'Rath smiled lightly, discarding some cards and picking up new ones as she began explaining. "Well, I've been trying very hard to keep track of dates and times since I escaped but before that everything kind of blurred together. Slaves don't exactly get name days and magisters get so many parties you can hardly use them to keep time. Slaves have claim days, and they're just for record keeping—the magisters would call it inventory, and—I win, loser deals—anyway, they estimate your age but that only really matters if people are hoping to sell. My former master used to say that if he ever got sick of me he'd make a great profit because he could pass me off as so young. I remember, at one point, long before I even thought I had a chance at leaving he said something like it had been over a decade and he could still pass it off as five years if he found a gullible enough buyer."

"So, you have no idea how old you are?" Zevran asked, hiding his incredulity beneath a passive tone as he threw down some cards and rearranged his hand.

"Well, not _no_ idea. I mean, I know people would assume early twenties and my best guess to my real age is somewhere around the mid-thirties, but that's really the whole of it."

The game continued for a short time in silence. Isabela and a few of her crew of her crew began to circulate in and out of the semi-private area for various reasons, presumably either because the weather was improving and they could spare the men or things were getting worse and they needed spare equipment.

After some time, Zevran began the conversation once more. "So, the fact that you can fool even Antivans into thinking you're a native as long as your bundled up means, I presume, that you've been here for some time?"

She smiled lightly as she lost the hand and re-dealt. "Yes and no." She left it at that for the remainder of her hand, but began to clarify shortly after. "I have spent the majority of my free life in Antiva, it is true. Even once I found the vials I needed to survive and managed to hid the cache in the few supplies I kept with me I still needed the right opportunity to leave. I had originally thought that opportunity would come in Seheron, that _is_ usually the best place, but the chance never came. It is probably better that way, of course, because even if I had managed to avoid re-capture and convince the Qunari to accept me as Viddathari I would have had to live in constant fear that they discovered I was a dangerous thing."

"Dangerous thing?" Zevran interjected.

"Saarebas," she clarified "it's Qunlat for dangerous thing, it's the name they give their mages. Essentially, discovery would mean they would either collar me or kill me, so it would hardly have been a run to freedom."

"Hardly" the pure elf agreed.

"So, Seheron was no option, but obviously I did end up getting free, yes? The reason I ended up in Antiva rather than somewhere like Nevarra or the Anderfels is a matter or opportunity, really. I made my escape when my master was searching for an artifact in the Arlathan forest, it worked out quite well, really, it is undeniably a good place to get lost and I was able to hide among the trees long enough to be relatively sure of my escape before I rushed south through the Drylands and eventually found myself in Antiva."

"And the no?"

"Well, I did spend a lot of time in Antiva, but it's not really the reason I'm so good with languages—draw, re-deal, the pot doubles."

"And?"

"The reason I'm good with languages is the same reason I have most of my skills, at one point it was useful to my master. The Imperium is large enough for its business to be fairly self-contained, but the ambitious always know the importance of trade, negotiation…and being able to make threats people will actually understand. It was a question of power in the international realm, as well as one of efficient subterfuge. In countries without slavery he could pass me off as an interpreter and himself as deaf or…whatever it took and he could always be sure to understand what was going on around him. I was trained in Arcanum, in old Tevinter, in Qunlat, in this tongue the Marchers and Ferelden call the common, and of course in Antivan. I was also trained in Orlesian and Anders but more-so to understand it than to actually be able to speak the language like a local. More than that, it was always made very clear to me that I had to be able to mimic almost any accent, and I've only really become better at it since being in a position to meet people from everywhere."

"And understandably so." Zevran was surprised, but the whole explanation made sense enough. He had travelled far and wide but never needed to know more than Antivan and common. Similarly, he never needed to conceal his accent. More than that, however, it made sense because slaves were made to be unquestioning, not to wonder why this or why that, or question the inhuman hours they would spend training in whatever ways their masters decided. For all Zevran knew of slaves, learning languages seemed one of the least objectionable of their tasks, excelling at it seemed a safe enough way to keep oneself from worse tasks while still remaining useful enough to avoid death.

It was around this time that Isabela was able to steal herself from her duties and join the others below deck. "Cards?" she scoffed, good-naturedly. She set herself down besides Zevran, legs spread some to avoid the bench's bar. Catching his confused look, she elaborated "cards are well enough on land, but there is only one game that properly belongs at sea." Rather than explaining, she dropped bags of dice on the table, and her choice of games became clear to all. The game of perudo had, after all, been popularized in Antiva. Zevran put his cards away, and the group seamlessly switched to the new gambling game.

"So, Daz'rath," Zevran began again finally, "you said you learned most of your skills in your days as a slave to serve your master, yes? Would you care to elaborate?"

Daz'rath, in fact, did not particularly care to elaborate. All the attention that had been paid to her life so far was unusual and unnerving. Still, she was more inclined to elaborate than to offend the people who had taken a chance to help her. Paid or not, she knew the venture she'd proposed was a lot to ask. So, rather than offend, she acquiesced to the request. "I would think most of it is clear, you have seen my weaponry after all." She sighed lightly at her hand of dice "four threes" she put in reluctantly before returning to the discussion of her history. "My training in battle is the easiest to define, I was always meant as a weapon. From my first memory I was a slave to that… to my master" _heartless bitch_ she couldn't help but think "so there was a lot of time to train me, yeah? From what I understand, most people start training when they're twelve at least, and that's really only the rich ones. I mean… except for crows of course. Anyway, my point is that they start training later and they usually only work at it for a few hours a day and that's why they specialise, it's the only way to be decent at anything. What I did, and what I thought was normal, the only world I knew—9 threes" she sighed reluctantly before continuing "I don't remember a single day where I wasn't either training or actively doing something for my master. There were days where I didn't even sleep, they said sleep made a warrior weak, anyway. I started as young as I could remember, first with daggers because they were light, then crossbows because they took less than full bows to fire. One that everyone seemed to love for me, I didn't really know why at the time, I guessed it was the best stepping stone between the skills I already had in technique and the intimidation factor they wanted me to eventually pick up as a warrior, was this thing they called the baculu'agone. Anyway, they said it was of Qunari design but in its original form it was little more than a glorified walking stick. The real reason they trained me in it, I think, was because it's motions could be imitated with practically any branch and if it happened to break the smaller pieces would be more or less blunt daggers—Isabela I saw that, put the dice back how it landed.—Anyway, eventually they moved me onto warrior training. I must still have been pretty young because I remember the one handed axes they gave me being almost my size—I used them as two handed, of course. The only weapon I never seemed able to really master was the maul, no finesse in it, I remember my master being furious 'how can you inspire fear if you don't even have the brutality for a common hammer.' It was only later that it was even discovered I had magic, by that point it was really more about using it to make all my other skills better than anything. For some reason, though, they put a staff in my hands along with everything else and I've just never gotten out of the habit of having it there to reach for."

"I don't understand" Isabela declared plainly. "I understand you having to give in the time for them to be able to train you in all this, but what was the point?"

"Self-preservation I suspect, maybe the ability to take people by surprise more? The perfect body guard, the perfect machine, is one that can turn almost anything into a weapon and use it like an extra limb, yes?"

"And your skills at catching people cheating?" Isabela huffed as she was called out for the third time that sitting.

"Mm, and your ability to know what people want, and how to manipulate them, it hardly seems useful to give a slave those abilities," Zevran added, before he declared "two sixes," starting off the next round.

"I was her slave. I didn't even imagine thinking for myself for a long time. My master had little to fear from me and many underlings to keep me in check anyway. I suspect I was trained to be perceptive in case anyone attempted an attack. As for my skills in knowing people, I assume it was the same reason I was taught language, diplomacy, and all those things—so I could be a tool in my master's control of others. To be fair, however, I've gotten much better at both since my escape."

"It seems daft they didn't expect you to escape with all that training" Isabel observed.

"I knew no other life, no other…_duty_, no other purpose. There was no reason to believe I'd defect," 'Rath explained, as though it still seemed like the only option.

"What changed?" Isabela asked, drawn by the apparent futility.

"My master offered my services to another magister, a good friend, or so I was told." She sat in silence for a while, staring into nothingness as though she was watching the past happen before her eyes. "I was made to act as the security detail for the creation of a new lyrium ghost, I'd never felt guilty before, really, but that-" she explained finally, quiet and somber; she couldn't finish. She threw the hand and pushed her money forward, then left to the large room full of beds that currently served as her lodgings.


	8. The Beast

**Author's Note:** Angst, drama, and self-hatred.

-o-

A few days passed, and the group conversed little beyond casual banter and happy stories of Zevran and Isabela's various misadventures. The weather had improved, and they were now out at sea far enough for Daz'rath to have few concerns about being spotted for either a mage or a slave by anyone who would feasibly pose a threat. As unusual as it was, these changes led her to sit above deck for once, rather than confining herself to the hold.

She sat in what shade there was, at a small table near the cabin. Her weapons were left below deck along with her neck plate and various pieces of armour. Though she was still in full plate, sheaves of spirit hide, and gauntlets, she felt comparatively naked. It was a bearable feeling only because the good weather had brought with it a heat wave from the north and she had begun to suffocate below deck.

Daz'rath sat almost perfectly still and stared into the void. She couldn't stop the memories in her mind from playing over and over like an incessant loop. They were varied thoughts, but none were pleasant. She blundered, unmoving, through decades of her life—memories of being turned into the hybrid that she was, memories of the people she'd killed with no regret, memories of those she'd turned on out of either jealousy or the inexplicable slew of emotions that seemed to come whenever she let a single one in. Worst of them all, however, were the memories of the screaming boy, of the one who'd won, who'd sacrificed everything for his family—the blood curdling cries that haunted her every peaceful moment since and led her to seek her own freedom.

"Are you alright, kitten?" came Isabela's voice, though it seemed to Daz'rath that the voice came from nowhere and belonged to no one.

Receiving no response, Isabela reached out and gently caressed Daz'rath's upper forearm, trying to get her attention.

"Don't!" Daz'rath screamed out with a start, pulling her arm away in and swift, aggressive motion. The marks along her skin flared up. Her eyes flashed the colour of the fade. Her arm in the air, she forced it down, and it settled in her hair. With tremendous effort, she steadied her breathing and forced her marks and eyes to return to normal. She seemed disproportionally fearful, but steadied her voice in time to say, much more calmly "please…don't touch me."

Zevran had approached during the incident, and looked to her with confusion. "Pardon me for mentioning, dear lady, but I seem to recall you rather enjoying being touched, once."

"Yeah, and that turned out so wonderfully" Daz'rath responded, quiet and morose.

The elf and the pirate looked at her confused for a moment. Isabela realised what she meant and attempted to comfort her "I don't blame you for that, you had no way of knowing I wasn't a threat."

"I should have known better," she brooded. _At least you didn't kill her_ she thought. _You killed the first person to court your precious barmaid, you killed the first person to try to care for you because you couldn't stop your bloody passions._ She was silent as she thought, but she didn't want to take everything wrong with her out on her current saviours. "It's safer for everyone if I feel little and don't touch. There's less memories, less chance of everything getting away from me… it's just better."

"Never being touched, that sounds horrible!" Isabela protested the decision, concerned.

"It's better than letting people get hurt," 'Rath replied bitterly. "Sorry, did you need something?"

"No," Isabela began "I was just—"

"—Wait" 'Rath interrupted. "Do you hear that?" Someone would probably have asked her what she heard had she not suddenly stood and ran starboard. She was horrified when she saw what it was, and dread melted together with bloodlust as she screamed out and defined the danger "Kraken!"

Everyone on deck but the two rogues and the hybrids began to panic, for all the help that did. Daz'rath fumbled with the left side of her massive left gauntlet. She managed to find the switch near the top and pull it out. The whole lever went about half way down. When she pulled it out and steadied it, a large piece popped out of the top of the gauntlet. She extended and set it—the gauntlet became an attached crossbow.

The kraken let out a gruesome shriek.

"Arm the cannons you useless dogs!" Isabella cried out, rallying her men. She ran to the wheel, they _needed_ some control. "Fire when ready!" screamed the captain, the men finally rallying into position.

'Rath armed the crossbow and steadied herself. She fired. Again and again she fired. The steel bows barely had an effect on the creatures. Zevran attempted the same, having nothing else for long range.

CRACK! One of the beast's tentacles breached the side of the ship. It reached around one of the mates and pulled him under.

Boom! Bang! The cannons fired, one after another. Below deck men were struggling to reload.

Both Zevran and Daz'rath knew the arrows were wholly a bust. "Forget the arrows! Grenades!" Daz screamed when Zevran didn't.

The kraken's tentacle slithered up to deck, threatening to wrap around the mast of the mainsail. Isabella veered quickly into the wind, narrowly avoiding the attack and forcing the kraken to begin the attempt from scratch. Crash! a separate tentacle breached the hold.

Zevran brandished his daggers and sprinted towards the tentacle above deck. He fumbled, almost falling on the deck now covered in the monsters ooze. He regained his stance and continued sprinting. He climbed the tentacle. Finally, he dug his daggers deep within the vein, lacerating the beast. The single tentacle began to retreat, flailing uncontrollably.

"No!" Isabella screamed as Zevran was thrown, face first, into the cabin wall.

_These grenades are useless_ 'Rath screamed in her own head. With breakneck speed she threw off her armour. Smash! Another tentacle crashed onto the deck, severing the floorboards along the portside of the ship—it threatened to split the entire portside clear in two.

Daz'rath hit the switches to release herself from her boots, and climbed on the starboard ledge of the boat. _Maker I hope this works._

Isabela: "Daz! What in the maker are you—." Daz dove.

Everything seemed lost. Was she just suicidal? The beasts arms jutted out towards the sky as though it were preparing to drag the entire ship down with it. Men were falling left and right, due to the movement and due to the beast's grasps and previous attacks. The ship began to creak ominously.

Below, all was not lost. Below, there was one last hope. Allowed to breathe by magic, 'Rath made her way closer and closer towards the beast. She dived one way, she bounded the other, narrowly avoiding inky doom. Finally, she reached the kraken's main body. She stared into the eye of the beast and realized it was all or nothing. The creature opened its mouth to let out a deep, thundering bellow. She was sucked in under the pressure of rushing water. She ghosted from the creature's mouth deeper into the beast. She set every grenade and trap that would work under water. She cast an entropic fire spell, thanking the maker that it worked under water. She ghosted out just as everything detonated.

The beast shrieked. It's limbs crashed into the boat. It screamed again. Suddenly, or so it seemed to those on the surface, it began to retreat with long, drawn out whines, rushing totward the ocean floor. For a moment, everything was eerily quiet. Then: Bang! Sizzle! Thud! Explosions detonated, one after another, deep in the water.

Whether or not the beast was dead, no one could be sure—but it was gone. Isabela rushed from one side to the other, then to the stern of the ship. She could see Daz. The other woman wasn't moving. "Man overboard! We have a man overboard!" she screamed out, panicked.

~To Be Continued~


	9. The Fade

The wooden panels of the slowly sinking ship creaked mercilessly with every ebb and flow of the ocean. They could stand another two feet before Daz'rath would need to be moved, and not many more before they were all done for. Isabella was far above, keeping her men on task and doing all she could to hit land before the worst happened. Below, the crow was perched in the rafters of the small back room, watching vigilant over the wary kossith elf as she battled her way through the fade and back to reality.

_Within the Fade_

It was happening again. Her entire life she'd been running from this moment as much as her slavery and now she was doomed to relive it. She was only vaguely aware that it had ever happened before.

Daz'Rath stood on the right side of her magister. In those days, the magister seemed unnaturally tall, so far above the regular reaches of humanity. Daz'rath felt her heart jumped at each giggling expression of joy on the magister's fair, sheltered face. Her beautiful light blonde tresses cascaded in loops of braids like a crown tracing near her temples and around the back of her hair into another layer of bigger loops, and another. The whole bounced with every bouncing expression of joy onto straight strands of equally stunning blonde tresses that fell down to the small of the woman's back. The women were slowly nearing the same height, though Daz'Rath would have never known it. Though she now reached near the other's shoulders, she felt as small in comparison as when she'd reached her Mistress's thigh alone. Daz'rath completely ignored the attendant on her holy Mistress's other side, and it was only by following the gaze of her Mistress's eyes as they fluttered like blue roses in the sunlight that she came to see the events of the competition at all—had but the mistress thought to keep her away from it, Daz'Rath may have never been motivated to seek her own freedom.

_Wait, no, why am I here again. Stop. Maker, leave! Now! Before it's too late!_

Daz'rath was deaf to the voices of all but her stunning mistress. And so, she was only vaguely aware when thousands of eyes shifted to her at the bequest of the tourney's announcer—a version of her markings, a more stable version, was the prize. Rath's eyes had already found their resting place away from her mistress, and she was vaguely surprised when the tawny elf's eyes had shifted to her's as well. His lips twisted into a wicked and foolhardy smile as he noticed her looking back, and he jumped with his arms up like a rallying cry—like one that had been blessed by the prize itself to win.

_And he did, Maker why did I have to look at him, what if I, what if he? If I'd left I'd never have been part of it._

The scene melted, as space itself was apt to do in the fade. Victory had been secured, and she stood in the corner of a dimly lit room, using every ounce of fortitude within her to keep her gaze squarely on the door. The victor's screams pieced through every microcosm of her body and soul, her marking flared up and she could feel the elf's fear and hate powering her into rushes she'd never felt. For the first time, this did not comfort her, she was not glad for the power, she was not glad for the sensation, and she felt as thought he black city itself had taken residence in her heart. He screamed louder, and in more colourful language—she prayed the moment would end.

It didn't. By the end of it all she was holding him down, forcing him to remain solid only by her own lack of solidity—this is why she'd been brought. Once he'd forgotten the choice he'd taken to resisting, and as his new abilities were slowly setting in it was up to the prototype to keep him steady, to force him in place, to feel the lyrium burning through her like a sensation of lust and feel the burning guilt at knowing the burning was followed by no lust on his end.

_The way to being intimidating is to let yourself feel like you take up ten times the space you do, to stand tall, to own your status—lack of freedom aside, you're one of the highest ranking men in Tevinter, act like it._ The words passed like the only definate points in a slew of memories—the grimm apprenticeship. She showed the victor a life she was only realising she never wanted, doing everything she could do keep him from getting beaten and benefitting only the masters by the lack of it. The prior vision of the stunning blonde had been corrupted, her veins seemed to snake across her skin pumping pure evil through her. Every smile she flashed at Daz'Rath with every flaring of her markings began to sting with guilt and shame rather than fill her with pride. _No, you're trying too hard. Don't act like you think you're important, know that you are, command respect. They can make you say or do anything, but they can't stop you from knowing your own value._ More images, more time. _No, you had to learn the intimidation, remember? You're beautiful... _Rage and hate, every moment is corrupted worst than the rest. _That wasn't always your name, those weren't always your wishes—you don't have to hate everything, Fenris, there is still some good out there. _Her soul shuddered at the the name, she knew it was wrong. She longed to change the moment, she longed not to let it all happen exactly as it had before, but it was inevitable.

The world began to rush away, there was no other chance to stop it, she was trapped in the moment of that gaze, that excited self-assurance at the beginning of the tourney, juxtaposed near that moment of hatred, of disgust at the mention of running from the magisters _with an abomination_. The world kept rushing away, faster and faster, until it began to rush up and down at the same time, a vortex in a moment, and then—she sat up with a sharp breathe was the cold ocean water began to wrap around her. _We're sinking. Wait. WE'RE SINKING! _She shook herself to attention and stood up, almost hip deep in the water. She pulled her gear on to attach it, keep every thing she owned in reach in case the worst should happen. And she rushed up, back in full reality, to try to help get the ship to land.

-((Line Break))-

They had managed to get the mangled ship to Ostwick without it sinking far enough to be gone forever. The first few days on land, as everyone else recovered their nerves and their minds, Daz'Rath had secured fairly large shipments of wood and had begun to rebuild the ship piece by piece, figuring out the mechanics of the thing from other people doing similar things along the docks. It had to be admitted she got a tremendous amount of work done for someone who'd known barely any of the specifics to making a ship float and who seemed to only have a passing interest in fixing it.

-((Line Break))-

Daz'Rath felt so terrible that anyone had had to take care of her that she'd begun to feel equally responsible for the ship falling to pieces, though it really just was one of the rarer risks of sea travel. In her current mindet, the elf and the woman from Rivain actually had to expend considerable effort in convincing 'Rath to go with them the rest of the way to Kirkwall rather than walking the rest of the way in a cloud of brooding self-hatred. But, eventually they were off towards Kirkwall, and the mood was growing lighter by the day.


	10. In The Beginning

**A/N: Alright, so I don't usually use writing to promote my own furious agenda. Or, at least if I do I make up a story for it or fit it in seamlessly, etc. Well, aparently I've had luck recently with the rash, with the getting it all out there even if it doesn't fit at the time. So, here it is, I'm going to rush through what was originally meant for a good number of chapters, add some scenes that may or may not even make sense. Hopefully it'll intuitively stick to cannon but it may totally break it. Put it this way—if it turns out to be a festering sore on the face of literature, let me know, and I'll change it. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy what is an experiment in completely emotional literature (Like FAW's "Noesis" was an exploration into the Greek idea of "Knowledge"/noesis through symbolism, and "Destined" (TSP) was just purely indulgent fun.) Well, let's see what happens, shall we?**

Daz'Rath had mentioned something about jumping early, about finding a way up through the under-city rather than going in through the always well watched docks. A silence fell at the mention, a solemn memory, a giddy wish for the harsh and simple, irony and the perfectly desolate. The docks meant nothing any longer. For the docks to be protected, the city would still have to be the true Kirkwall, the place of honourably directed prejudice that had always managed to stay self-assured and pompous enough to keep outsiders at bay. That Kirkwall was no longer. After Meridith the city had been plunged into chaos, crime, and a pestilence even Kirkwall had never known. It became lawless with its faction, it's divided notions of law, policy, and society. The guard fell in one order, the Templars in another, the Circle broke and the Elves revolted—even the dirt from darktown had had a say. The city was something, at least, somehow trade went on, though it was a shadow of its former self. When the crowds were at their best numbers, outright attacks were delegated to poison and subterfuge. Like always, with Kirkwall, it was the moment the threat of crowds went down that things went wrong—only now, the activities once reserved for bandits, smugglers, mercenaries and opportunists were the games of all of Kirkwall. Everyone wanted something, no one could even bear to think of compromise any longer, and subversion had turned even the best of hearts into nothing but a battery to power an opportunist.

-((Line Break))-

'Rath stood below deck, around a table with Zevran and Isabela. Even as Kirkwall wait outside she pulled on sheaves and sheaves of spirit hide, leaving nothing below her neck less her fingers free of it. She pushed into the heavy boots and pulled on each piece of her elaborate armour, rune-d for silence else eerily quiet. She continues, item after item as she spoke. "I need to go alone, I mean, respectfully, I don't know what's in there and we can't all sneak in, regardless of what shape the city is in."

Isabela shook her head "how could anything be regardless of the shape of the city? The chances of just making it through Kirkwall at night completely alone now merit _some_ kind of regard!"

"Then what's the problem?" Daz questioned, "why do you even want to go if you seem so sure it's suicide?"

"Because, **dammit, **it sounds like _fun!_"

Daz sighed, running her fingers in grasping handfuls through her long ebony hair. "But no one is stopping you from going into Kirkwall anyway, you and Zevran could just-"

"Mm, might I interrupt, my marvellously tall friend, did you not say I was the only one you could think of capable of accomplishing the impossible? Would it not then follow that I should, at the very least, get you inside the place?"

"Yeah!" Isabela chanted out before rethinking the matter "wait, Zev, you can't be serious. What? And just leave me behind?"

'Rath closed her eyes painfully at the decision, but he was right. She _needed_ help. "Fine, umm—thank you." She'd finished with her armour and was pulling her heavy cloak over every telling feature when she'd said it, so she left.

"Zev, are you really leaving me behind?" Isabela questioned with all the pain of a rejected kitten, though she did her damnedest to hide it.

"Of course not," he laughed out quietly. "But I couldn't tell her that, now could I? Stay out of sight. She'll be expecting me to follow her so I won't be able to, but if she thinks you've stayed here, then, it should be no problem for you to see what's really going on, no?"

-((Line Break))-

Zevran was practically dumbfounded. Somehow, 'Rath had eluded her, presumably to make her own way to Hightown and meet him there, but he'd grown entirely unsure of anything.

-((Line Break))-

Daz had kept to a philosophy of subterfuge. She had avoided all conflicts, just trying to keep her own goals in mind. But this one, this one she couldn't abide. Hatred for the nobility was fine enough a sentiment, but those numbers against one, a woman who'd probably never known enough to even question her life and born to it by nothing but an accident of birth—what those men were trying to do to her—Caution be hanged, Daz was sickened by the way her own body reacted to the woman's fear, they had made it personal, and all the more objectionable, though Daz knew she would never have been able to tolerate it, her body would always have reacted this way. Enough thought.

Daz deftly fingered out the pin daggers that lined her boot beneath its ribs. She took out all those she could with a handful before stepping out of the shadows with the double ended dagger-swords brandished. With every crack of bone, seething tear of flesh, and screaming vermin she could hear herself say above them "nothing gives you the right; nothing gives you the privilege; you are filthy, self-entitled scum and you're only pissed off because daddy's finally taken all of your tows away." The words seemed to come to her third hand, but the job was done before long. 'Rath resisted the urge to just drop the daggers and quit the field, resigned to die, upon seeing the look on the face of the woman she'd saved. She swallowed the sickening feeling, sheathed them, and made sure her features were well hidden before walking away. There was nothing to be done, the woman likely wouldn't even move in her presence.

-((Line Break))-

Perched on a set of stairs, relatively nearby, Fenris was drawn to attention. His ears perked at the conflict. _Enough, it is resolved_. He continued his journey upwards through the city—someone was taking care of it. Whether ti was the tension of the new Kirkwall or the knowledge that he had to get inside before the Seeker's army brought their nightly rounds desperately close that did it—Fenris had not even noticed the accent, noticed anything strange even in the odd occurrence of someone other than himself intervening. He merely pushed on.

-((Line Break))-

Isabela had followed the progress of her companions through the city. She was struck when she saw them slowly converging towards a particular residence. _No, no it can't be._ Her heart sank a beat. What could be found in that house? Could anything good come from that house before of after him? Would it be abominations? Slavers? A group of Kirkwall's finest criminals? What could she possibly need there?

-((Line Break))-

"And you are sure you want to do this, dearest 'Rath?"

Daz'Rath cringed lightly at the full elf's familiarity from within her shadows. "Yes, how?"

Zevran sighed lightly, both at giving away trade secrets and at her far too familiar stubbornness—how did he always find himself working with stubborn bossy people—probably how wonderfully attractive they always were with their bossiness, and their stubbornness, and... "Fine," he whispered, mildly indignant. "You'll want to climb the building next to it so you can jump down to the third window from the right on the North side and not make all kinds of noise on the walls of the place in case someone is inside. That should be your room, or at least... close to it, you really could have done more research."

"It's fine—thank you—I'm fine. It'll be good enough if it gets me in and I'm not as loud as everyone seems to think I am, anyway," she groaned lightly to herself—when had she begun explaining every little action and thought out loud.

With no more hesitation, she began almost expertly climbing the bricks of the adjacent building despite all the armour—it really was unnaturally pliable—she managed to grab hold of an open window with her feet and make the stretch to a railing on the proper house. It wasn't exactly delicate or fluid, especially when she pulled herself to the new destination, but it wasn't as loud as a jump would have been, especially given her stature—still large though it was tremendously lithe. Before long, she was inside, and out of Zevran's view. Isabela's heart lunged into her throat for a moment and she remained completely confused—what was it about that house? Still, at least it was familiar. It took her no effort to dance down and dodge through deficiencies in the house's armour no owner could unmake.

-((Line Break))-

She found herself in a badly damaged room. Chests had been broken everywhere, chairs were broken, portraits had fallen, there was a faint smell of old wine—it was like someone had fought an epic battle here, looted the place, and then Christened it with some kind of red wine before just letting it sit. She inspected the walls, looking for some sort of sign—it was the wrong room. She moved as quickly as she could without making any distinct sounds and padded her way out the room, along the walls, trying one room and then the next until—the right kinds of marks in the walls. Magisters and their predictability.

-((Line Break))-

Someone was in his house. He didn't know how he knew, but he was certain. He began to stalk as quiet as a desperately hungry wolf, moving in the direction of the feeling-that _something_ that was wrong.

-((Line Break))-

She made her way tot he far wall, to the discrepancies. There was a chance. Things could go well. It was almost too easy. She pressed in the stoned like a combination, one of so many she had seen so many timed. The chamber began to shake open. Her hear leaped. It had shaken itself far enough to be pushed the rest of the way. She reached in, and began to grow frantic. She pulled off her gauntlets and dropped them as lightly as she could on the floor, trying to actually feel the contents, papers, more papers, a box. She Pulled it out, hands almost shaking in desperation. She opened it. Nothing, empty. "No, no no, nononononononononononononono no," panic. She pulled as many of the papers as she could in the folds of her clothing and threw the box back into the vault. Her heart sank, she felt like the epitome of despair, but the papers—maybe there was hope. She tried to compost herself and reached for her discarded gauntlets—it was time to go, and swiftly.

No suck luck. Before she really knew what was going on, she felt herself being thrown to the floor. She gripped at the hands surely enough to turn herself around, for all the good it did her. She thrashed against the confines of her own cloak, practically blinded, and forced herself up only to be thrust back down with a thud. She ghosted. The body kept her down anyway. _What is going on?!_ She shook her head out violently, eyes glowing fade blue, blood pumping damningly through her markings and then she saw-

"You?-Leto?" she went still, he forced her down harder but found a way to keep his distance. Her eyes returned to the kossith violet at she searched the familiar face, so dissimilar to memory. Her stomach turned in knots—he had every right to kill her.

"Fenris," he growled, still glowing, still pushing. The moment she was completely un-ghosted he threw his hand into her chest and grabbed hold of her heart :"What are you? Don't pretend to know me—nightmare."

"Fenris?" Isabela questioned, confused and a little afraid from the doorway, brow furrowed in consternation as she worked her way slowly towards the sight.

Fenris's eyes searched nothing for a moment as his mind tried to grapple with the logic. "Isabela," her let out. He refused to move from his position, but his face betrayed a sense of shame, "you don't understand."

'Rath could feel panic pumping through her again. She ran from him, after what they made her do. She left him to everything. He freed her mind and she let the whole thing fall to pieces. _Not to hurt him anymore. Not to hurt anyone anymore. To live peace despite what they made you into_ another part of her mind supplied. She used all the rage she could fuel from the panic to ghost back out and push Fenris off of her before recoiling towards the back wall.

"She won't even let people she's slept with touch her half the time I really don't see how she could be that dangerous unless she's afraid."

"Fear is a powerful tool, isn't it-" Fenris spat, standing to his feet, disgusted.

"And what do you think motivated Hawke? Do you really think he never once did any of those things out of fear, fear for his family, fear for himself—fear for _us?_"

"Do not compare Hawke to her! Hawke was a good man—_is_ a good man! She feeds on fear, she makes fear more real, she is fear embodied and she loves it—don't let anything she says fool you! You're all too trusting, you're all fools."

"Everyone's a fool, Fenris? Listen to yourself..."

"You said the same thing when we had this exact conversation about Anders! Look how well that turned out."

"Isabela!" Daz groaned out for the corner, having managed to sit herself up and bring up her knees, but not having the heart to stand. "Look, he's right. The only reason I even asked for help is because I thought—I thought I could save my own life. It was selfish. Everything I do is selfish and if you just side with Fenris maybe it will all be better off—just have it done with."

"Don't be an idiot," Isabela cried out.

"Oh yes, melancholy and self pity, that could never be a trick. It's gone, you're not getting it—leave or I'll kill you myself."

"Wait, what's gone," Isabela interogated. How did Fenris know when she didn't.

"This... abomination needs Tevinter lyrium and the magistrate's store of archdemon blood to keep itself going," Fenris's stomach recoiled at the thought.

"But how do you even know that?" Isabela pressed.

"Because I told him," 'Rath interjected, with a heavy heart. "Venhedis (arcanum profanity [wiki]) my only other option seems to be to march into the heart of Tevinter itself. So, you've been waiting for this a long time, I imagine, just do it already."

"Eivento nai mordoir died (I don't want to kill you, Arcanum [wiki])"

Daz'rath regained her feet and sighed out, hurt in a way that felt oddly like slavery—guilt, choice-less-ness, gratitude at being hurt. "Then I guess it's back to running, unless you know why, unless you want to come."

Isabela smiled lightly, eyes looking pleadingly at Fenris, "come, it'll be fun."

Fenris shook his head, "I swore I wouldn't do this again—Hawke..."

"Maybe you did turn out alright after all. I was sure you'd be one of those-keep an eye on the abomination at all costs—type," Daz'Rath chided, making her way towards the nearest window. Despite everything, she knew him well enough.

Fenris groaned, "use a door, at least—but you're right, we couldn't let the source of all the pain ever committed by any lyrium ghost go unwatched—I feel like I need a bath..."


End file.
